A short based on a story I started writing but never finished so long ago called Eden Mourning.

The hardest part about writing now has to be the candlelight. They can see the lights, the djinn, so I have to write in tightly enclosed spaces, with the light so close to my face that I can smell burning hair. But I have to write. I’m the only one who knows what came before, and someone has to know what comes after.

It’s easier to write during the day, but there’s so much other stuff to do then that there’s hardly anytime left for writing. Survival is chore after chore. Thank god for Liam. If he hadn’t found me wandering, lost after the cataclysm and who knows how many years in that frozen cellar, I wouldn’t have survived long. I used to make acceptable heated dinners in the microwave; I was nowhere near prepared for the end of civilization.

“Dianthe,” Liam called. His voice was soft when speaking to me. He was his tribe’s leader, but his call was smooth and soft when he addressed me. “Smother the flame.”

I quickly did as I was told. Liam led me by the hand to the door, and he pulled aside the old rags that served as our windows. Outside, we could see the shimmering blue lights in the forest–dancing and shuddering like candlelight.

“Djinn?” I asked with as low a whisper as I could muster.

“Yes,” Liam answered. “No more writing tonight. They are too close.”

I nodded. I hated stopping mid-sentence like that, but being able to continue at all was a gift.